


The Way We Fall (Back into Place)

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Insomnia, M/M, Other, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:36:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's depression induced insomnia and wanderings leave them all feeling a little off kilter. The solution is, for once, a simple one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way We Fall (Back into Place)

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimer applies.
> 
> I don't know, I just wanted sleepy Grantaire getting cuddles and then suddenly there was Combeferre and adorable domesticity. Fluff. Teeth rotting fluff. Also cuddles. And distracted Enjolras.
> 
> Anyway, feel free to [talk to me](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com), I'm pretty chill.

The apartment is nearly silent for once, and Combeferre finds it strangely, surprisingly lonely.

Usually he appreciates it after a long week of good but tiring work, but Enjolras has been intently working on a conference paper about Les Amis de l'ABC and has been quietly laboring for the entire day, and Grantaire is out, probably walking, possibly with Joly and Bossuet. Combeferre would like the break to read, perhaps, but it feels too off kilter - which is perhaps why Enjolras is making himself so busy, but it's endearingly hard to tell.

Grantaire has been having a bad week - he's been unable to sleep more than two hours lately, the aimless beat of his daytime wandering wearing the tread of his shoes to nothing, and he's been dazed and quietly melancholy on the rare occasions he ghosts in and manages to pay attention, agitated and restless. The first few nights, he curled up in bed with them all the same, but he was clearly feeling guilty over waking them each time he got up to smoke and has been sleeping less and less, little enough that he's taken to prowling the streets and rooftop instead.

And Combeferre is worried. He knows there's nothing to do but to wait it out, other than leave his phone on and make sure there's something easy in the fridge to eat, but he frets and wishes he could do more. It hadn't set in so much, earlier, his week filled to brimming with work demands and helping with projects, but now the apartment is silent and he misses Grantaire's aimless humming in the background.

They didn’t click into place right away, Grantaire and Combeferre too uncertain to ever have attempted it, Combeferre and Enjolras too consumed with their work and unwilling to risk it, and Enjolras and Grantaire with too much built up between them, but they’d fallen into an easy line when it was the three of them. They’d stumbled on the rightness of it by accident and negotiated the rest of it with careful words, and he loves them, he loves this. Grantaire shares the burden of the world with him and Enjolras soothes the weight of it away, and Combeferre adores them. But they stumble sometimes, on this or that, and he misses the sound of Grantaire humming filling the silence of their home.

He manages to put it out of his mind enough to watch a new documentary on moths and catch up on some paperwork, dials it down to a vague hope that he'll be around to eat something (about as much as he hopes he'll get Enjolras to, as well). Lunch (or maybe it’s dinner, sometimes they eat two meals, sometimes four, depending on the day) is late and quiet and distracted, and this, Combeferre doesn't mind, Enjolras' hair – going dark at the roots - in a loose half bun as he peeks over his reading glasses at the book in one hand between bites of food, so he takes out his own book and they read in companionable quiet, ankles pressed against one another.

It's still early when Enjolras finally retreats to his room without a word and he thinks he might take another shot at catching up on the novel he'd started a week ago. But first, he decides, a cup of tea. He's just putting the kettle on when the front door clicks open, and there's a quiet shuffle. He expects Grantaire to flop down on the couch or sprawl with charcoal to sketch, but then there are arms around Combeferre's waist and a warm weight against his back.

"Hello, my love," he greets, pressing his free hand against Grantaire's.

"Hi," he mumbles back, burying his face between Combeferre's shoulder blades.

Turning gently, he wraps his arms around Grantaire and kisses his forehead, noting the wildness of his dark curls with amusement and the redness of his eyes with worry. "How are you?"

"Tired," he sighs, pressing his face back in against Combeferre's chest, sounding drained and exhausted. He doesn’t ask in return, but his fingers have found a knot of tension in Combeferre’s shoulder and he eases it away gently.

Combeferre doesn't quite sigh, just notes with relief that the worst of it is over, and smooths down Grantaire's hair, reaches over to turn off the electric kettle. "Come to bed?"

Grantaire hums a wordless agreement, still squishing his face against Combeferre, arms still wrapped around him even as he's guided back down the hall to their bedroom, less steady on his feet than even when he's at his most drunk but still with an underlying hint of grace.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre says as he opens the bedroom door. "We're going to bed."

The blond is sitting in the middle of their bed, books and papers and old pamphlets spread in a circle around him, hunched over his laptop, blinking as he looks up in confusion at the interruption. "What? But there's still- oh."

His eyes land on Grantaire and he barely pauses to save before shutting his computer and clearing the bed. Even with Grantaire half-asleep, it doesn't take them long to strip most of the way down and work their way under the covers.

"Hello, sweetest," Enjolras greets, a gentleness in his tone and face that Combeferre will never stop adoring, as he kisses Grantaire's forehead and strokes his jaw. "Get some sleep."

"Hello," Grantaire murmurs back, voice a sleepy slur, depression still clinging to his limbs. It's in the way he slips down a little under the covers to wrap his arms around Enjolras' waist, the way he hides his face against his shoulder, the way he sighs, soft and ancient.

Combeferre leans over to kiss Enjolras once, earning a smile, affection and trust and adoration and relief passing between them without words, before wrapping himself around Grantaire and feeling the other man finally relax cradled against them, and it's warm and quiet in their cozy little room, the last hints of sunlight just peeking in through the curtains.

"Love you both," Grantaire says, rough like sandpaper and thick with crawling fatigue.

"We love you too," Combeferre says, Enjolras only a quarter of a beat behind, and they don't even know if Grantaire is awake long enough to hear their reassurance, his breathing evening with the soft hint of a snore.

It's early, too early to sleep, and they will likely spend tomorrow here as well, alternating between easy gestures of affection and work, but Combeferre feels like things have slotted back into place soundlessly and easily. He sighs, the sound swallowed up in the dark of the room, and closes his eyes, can feel the warmth of both of his lovers blanketing the bed, the familiar comfort of their smell and weight.

He closes his eyes, and thinks, already half gone as he finds Enjolras’ hand, that he might just sleep, just for a little while, and take it all in.


End file.
